


Carnaby

by Nyssa



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-09
Updated: 2010-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Python Pythons follow fashion trends in swinging London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnaby

**Author's Note:**

> Carnaby Street was the capital of the fashion world in the mid-Sixties. If you've seen many photos of hipsters, artists, and rock groups from those days, you've surely noticed the exceedingly clingy "Mod" pants worn by all the young dudes. I _love_ those photos. Then I saw _Do Not Adjust Your Set_ , and whaddaya know, there's darling Eric sporting the very same second skins. Lovely!
> 
> The sketch referred to toward the end of the fic is "Match of the Day," from the third season of _Flying Circus_.

He'd jerked Eric Idle off once.

Only once, but he remembered it vividly. Too vividly, considering that he'd been stupendously drunk at the time. Eric had been, if anything, even more rat's-arsed than Terry, and had apparently forgotten the incident, or at least gave no indication that he remembered it, and thank God for that.

It wouldn't have even happened, Terry was convinced, if it hadn't been for those sodding trousers. Those tight, tight, drainpipe-narrow Carnaby Street trousers that every bloke in London who was under thirty and had any aspirations whatsoever to coolness was practically living in that year, Terry included. But in Eric's case -- well, designer clothes were one thing; designer bodies were quite another. And that was the impression Eric gave when he wore the bloody things. It was as if he'd been created to fit the pants, not the other way round. He was tall (Terry wasn't), thin (Terry wasn't), and appeared to have been born without hips (Terry had two). Terry couldn't imagine why Eric needed the wide snakeskin belts he wore with them, since the trousers clung to him like paint to a wall. They were meant to, of course; that was the fashion. But most men aren't fashion models any more than most women are; the bodies that can effortlessly wear such clothes are the exception. And Eric was exceptional.

Normally, Michael would have gone with them to the pub that evening. They would have had a few pints and a few laughs, and talked about their work for _The Frost Report_. Terry and Michael had quite a bit of material written for it, and Eric was ready to unveil some of his own ideas, which he'd declined to share with anyone so far. They had known Eric only a few weeks, and might have felt uncomfortably competitive with him -- they were all young, unknown writers hired for a show fronted by a man more famous than they could imagine being -- had Eric not already proven himself to be such a splendidly good chap to laugh and drink with. He and Mike had got on enormously well from the start, and Terry, though naturally more reserved, even suspicious, than his writing partner, was warming up fast to Eric's unforced charm and hilariously obscene sense of humour. And the trousers didn't hurt.

But Mike couldn't go, because he'd promised his wife he'd be home early. Terry remembered the teasing they'd given him for that. He and Helen couldn't have been married for more than two or three months then. Mike, who could write and perform the most ribald material without batting an eye, nevertheless had an unfortunate tendency to go beet red when such humour was directed at himself. Naturally, this delighted his mates no end. Eric in particular had speculated loudly as to Helen's reasons for extracting such a promise, and Michael's eagerness to keep it. Terry clearly recalled Mike's sheepish grins as the two of them ribbed him mercilessly about his plans for the evening (Mike mumbling, "She misses me," Eric smirking, "I'll bet she does, I'll bet she does!"). In the end Michael good-naturedly pronounced them "jealous bastards," wished them a good time at the pub, and reminded them as he started his car to "have one for me." Eric shouted after him "Have one for me too, mate!" and then he and Terry were alone, and rocking with laughter.

"Ah well," Eric sighed as they made their way to the bus stop, "if I was gettin' what he's gettin' I suppose I'd dash home, too."

Terry, a careful step or two behind, glanced discreetly at Eric's snugly covered backside. He had difficulty believing that Eric couldn't get anything he wanted to get, any time he wanted to get it.

The bus route took them right down Carnaby Street. Eric and Terry sat side by side, making occasional conversation and watching the parade of humanity on what was, at the time, London's most internationally famous avenue. Girls strode by in bright pop art dresses that left most of their thighs exposed; shaggy-haired young men who all looked as if they should be carrying guitars leaned on lampposts and boasted ruffled Edwardian shirts and creeping sideburns. And of course, drainpipe trousers.

Terry wondered if Eric bought his clothes here. It seemed unlikely, unless he spent very little on anything else. He knew what Eric earned, because it was the same as he and Mike earned. Terry was perpetually skint, despite his naturally cautious spending habits, and he knew Mike was worried about having enough to start a family. Mike's car was, to put it kindly, inadequate, and he and Helen were looking for a cheaper flat.

"You ever go in there?" he asked, gesturing at a particularly gaudy boutique painted with a chartreuse moon and stars design. If you looked at the stars long enough, people said, they'd start to move. Terry doubted that. Unless, of course, you were tripping when you looked.

"Not me, mate." Eric shook his head regretfully. "Hurts to look when you can't buy."

"But those are -- " Terry's eyes dropped again to Eric's lower half " -- they're Carnaby, aren't they? They don't look like knock-offs." His own were knock-offs, and he always felt everyone could tell.

"Yeah, they're real, but I get 'em discount." Eric grinned. "There's a shop just round the next corner where I go all the time. The bird that runs it -- well, I think it's her mum's, but she's always behind the counter -- if she likes you, I mean _really_ likes you, she'll let you have 'em for half."

"Ah." Terry laughed. "And she really likes you."

"Oh, she's a clever girl, is that one. She knows a good time when she sees it."

It was Friday, and the pub was noisy and crowded, but it didn't matter. Terry quite fancied being squeezed into a snug corner with Eric, and they were soon adding to the noise level as Eric read Terry some of his work for the show, complete with elaborate hand gestures and wild-eyed facial expressions. Terry laughed till he choked on his lager. Some of it was clearly too risque for the BBC, and he knew they'd never get it all past the suits, but it was bloody hilarious.

"Whatever you do," he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes after a particularly violent fit of mirth, "don't lose any of that. If you can't use it for this programme, you can use it for another someday. Don't chuck it out."

Eric's face registered undisguised delight. "Y' like it then, really?"

Terry rolled his eyes. "You wanker, don't pretend you don't know it's good."

"I don't!" Eric protested. "I never know till I try it out on somebody."

Terry took another swallow of beer, finishing off his second pint. "Well, it's good. I only wish Mike were here. He'd piss himself laughing." He giggled again at the thought, and raised his hand to signal for another round.

"He'd fancy it too, would he?"

"Christ, yes, he would." Terry sighed. His ribs were aching, but otherwise he felt wonderful. Laughter, the best medicine.

The waitress arrived with more lager, and flounced away at a wink from Eric.

Eric looked after her intently. "Not bad, eh?" And before Terry could respond, "You and Mike know each other well, don't you? Always know what'll make the other laugh?"

"Yeah." Terry smiled. "Yeah, we do. We bounce off each other well. If one of us doesn't know where to go with something, the other can usually suss it out. It's good to have a partner." He stopped, cleared his throat, and took a long swallow of beer. He hadn't meant to sound quite so, well, emotional about it. But he was very fond of Michael.

Eric shook his head. "Don't think I could do that. I mean, I never have done. It's always just been me doing it, and then prowling for victims to test it on." He laughed. "Comes of bein' an only child, maybe."

"Well, you might give it a go. You could try writing something with me and Michael. Just see how it goes." He wondered immediately why on earth he should have said such a thing. He and Mike didn't need any help, and he felt distinctly uneasy at the thought of their partnership being opened up to anyone else, even someone as talented and congenial as Eric. But to his secret relief, Eric dismissed the offer out of hand.

"No, no. Wouldn't know how. I'm too fucking precious about what I write. Hate having anybody see it before it's ready, y'know? And anyway, I wouldn't want to interfere with anything."

Terry relaxed. "Rubbish, it wouldn't be interfering. And I know Mike wouldn't mind."

Eric didn't answer immediately, and Terry looked up to find himself being subjected to a penetrating stare. "Well, I know you and him are quite mates."

"We are, yeah." Michael was his closest friend.

Eric grinned suddenly. "Two of you ever -- y'know -- play about?"

Terry blinked. "Play -- "

Eric lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Oh, _you_ know. Maybe when you're writing, you get bored, get stuck on something, need to liven things up a bit?" He waggled his eyebrows, a mannerism that reminded Terry, very disconcertingly, of Michael himself.

"No," he said, appalled, and feeling oddly out of breath. "What the bloody hell kind of question is that?"

Eric's eyes widened, and he held his hands up in a gesture of appeasement. "Nothing, mate, nothing at all. Didn't mean to offend. It's just -- well -- I mean, he's a bit of alright, isn't he?" He laughed. "Cute little arse, pretty smile. And you're alone with him so much, must be hard not to touch sometimes. Eh?"

Terry felt his pulse hammering. "It's, er, it's not like that with us."

"Oh." Eric shrugged and finished his pint.

Terry realised suddenly that his own glass was empty, and he desperately wished it wasn't. "Where the hell is that waitress?" he growled, looking round.

" 'S on me," Eric said, and raised his hand, waving it extravagantly until the harried waitress arrived at their table.

"My friend and I will have another, if you please, Madam," Eric proclaimed grandly, "and afterward, would you be agreeable to a discreet leg-over in the alley?"

The waitress took their glasses, shot Eric daggers with her eyes, and disappeared. Terry couldn't help laughing, as Eric had clearly meant him to. He took a deep breath and made himself relax. Whatever Eric thought he had seen between him and Michael, he was just wrong, that was all. He didn't fancy Mike, never had. Though, now he thought about it, he could see Eric's point about the cute arse.

He shook himself. He didn't fancy blokes in general. Eric and his bloody trousers -- well, that was simply the exception that proved the rule.

He downed his next drink and the one after that rather more quickly than usual, and began coming to the gradual, contented realisation that he didn't particularly care if Eric thought he was a poof. Not that Eric appeared at all put off by Terry's reaction to his personal remarks. He seemed to consider the subject closed, and moved on to others -- the joys of football, the terrors and delights of performing onstage, the indisputable genius of something called the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. Terry was far more conversant with some of these topics than others, but that didn't seem to matter. He found himself wrapped in a warm glow of admiration for Eric. Eric's hair shone golden in the lamplight. Eric's eyes were a deep blue sea of laughter. Eric's long, slender fingers gripped his glass more and more unsteadily, but they were lovely to look at. From some remark he made, Terry gathered that Eric played the guitar. The second time Eric rose and made his way to the lavatory, Terry (after observing the retreating hip pockets carefully) closed his eyes and drifted into a pleasant reverie in which he himself was magically transformed into Eric's guitar. He tried to feel shocked at this fantasy, and failed.

He visited the gents multiple times himself, and found it more and more challenging to aim straight. As the evening wore on and more patrons crowded into the pub, a queue formed outside the toilets. Terry had just returned from his latest expedition and was slumped at their table, eyes closed, head swimming, waiting for Eric to come back from his, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and warm breath at his ear.

"Bleedin' lavvy's full," Eric said. His voice was slow, indistinct, sounding as if it were wrapped in several layers of cotton wool.

Terry meditated on this. "Have to go in the alley, then."

Eric nodded, and crumpled slowly into the booth beside Terry. "Dunno 'f I can make it," he whispered into Terry's ear, and they both dissolved in giggles.

"Don't -- " Terry gasped " -- don't slide under the table." He gripped Eric round the waist and hauled him back up to a sitting position. "Can't carry you -- "

Eric shook his head very deliberately. "Don't have to. I can walk, I can walk as good as you. I can walk _perfectly fucking well_." He sighed and nestled his head comfortably against Terry's neck.

"You're not," Terry said with a contented sigh of his own. Eric felt wonderfully warm.

"Not what?" Eric mumbled.

"Not walking."

Eric raised his head and looked wonderingly about. "Oh," he said. " 'M not."

"I'll help you." Terry shook his head, and focused his eyes carefully. "Ready? On my mark, get set, go." He heaved ineffectually at Eric. "C'mon, mate, c'mon..."

After considerable scrambling about, they both managed to rise. The sudden downward rush of blood left Terry dangerously lightheaded, and he and Eric clung together for support, giggling in unison.

"Where's th' door?" Eric slurred.

Terry swayed slightly. "Prob'ly same place as when we got here. They wouldn't have moved it. Would they?"

Eric seemed to consider the question. "No, no. Must be..." He pointed triumphantly across the room, almost throwing Terry off balance. "Over there!"

They negotiated the dark, crowded floor with infinite care, each with an arm round the other, leaning heavily on each other and crashing into only three annoyed patrons on the way. By the time they finally emerged into the warm, overcast night Terry felt as though he'd been attached to Eric his whole life. It was a highly enjoyable sensation.

But Eric destroyed the pleasant bubble of closeness immediately by breaking away from Terry and lurching round the corner of the building to the alley at the back. Terry stood blinking forlornly for a moment before remembering why they'd come and following. As he rounded the corner he saw Eric a few feet away, balancing against the wall of the building next door with one hand and holding himself with the other. The sound of abundant peeing reached Terry's ears.

He turned his head automatically because one wasn't meant to look, of course. He even closed his eyes. But he'd seen. And as he stood there, another picture crowded into his mind. A picture of Michael in the same position, next to him in a public lavatory somewhere, backstage with the Oxford Revue, or somewhere, he couldn't remember. He had looked, and turned away. Mike had been talking animatedly about something; he hadn't noticed the direction of Terry's gaze. And anyway, it had lasted only a second, and Terry hadn't let himself think about it since.

The trickling sound stopped. Terry turned back and saw Eric pulling at his zip. He fumbled clumsily with it, and Terry saw the metallic gleam of it in the light from the single street lamp.

If he hadn't been so drunk, he would of course have turned away again. Or if Eric hadn't been wearing those _fucking_ trousers. But he was very drunk, and the trousers were very tight. And somehow, something about the movements of Eric's hands as he adjusted himself inside them (one had to be careful, Terry knew from painful experience) was just riveting. For a moment, Eric was cupping his cock lovingly in his hand. It was clearly outlined against the fabric. And it was somehow more alluring, more impossible for Terry to take his eyes off of than it had been when it was in the open.

He was staring, he knew it, and he couldn't stop. He couldn't even feel appalled at himself for doing it. And then he forced himself to stop, forced himself to avert his gaze, and looked up directly into Eric's eyes.

Even the shock of discovery couldn't shake the haze from his brain. He simply gazed with drunken boldness at Eric and whispered, "Wrong side."

Eric blinked uncomprehendingly.

Terry spoke slowly and with as much precision as he could muster. "You always carry it on the left. Always. I've been _*watching_ you." He raised a finger and wagged it reprovingly in Eric's face. "You're trying to confuse me, aren't you?"

Eric stared at him for a moment before a slow, sloppy grin broke over his face. "Want me to move it then?"

Terry smiled back. " _I'll_ move it," he said, and slid a hand gently between Eric's thighs, until his palm rested against the heavy genitals.

He heard Eric inhale sharply, felt him shift his legs apart, but it was as if it was all happening at a distance. The only real sensation was the weight of the testicles in his hand, the feel of the cock, not hard but getting there. Enthralled, he squeezed slightly.

Eric muttered something Terry couldn't decipher, and caught Terry's hand, pressing it closer. Terry closed his eyes, shutting out everything else, and stroked him through the straining fabric.

He felt Eric stagger, heard him rasp "Over here," and then he was being steered awkwardly toward the wall of the pub, out of range of the streetlight into the shadows. Eric backed up against the wall, pulling Terry against him. Though he hadn't been aware of his unsteadiness -- he hadn't been aware of anything apart from the feel of Eric in his hand -- he was grateful for the support.

It was too dark now for him to see the results of his ministrations, but the steadily hardening flesh under his fingers told him they were much appreciated. He fumbled impatiently with the zip, drawing a gasp from Eric. "Shit, be careful!"

"Too tight," Terry muttered. "Can't get -- "

And then he had it down, and whispered "Jesus" as he touched Eric's naked cock. Fascinated, he ran his hand slowly up and down it.

He heard Eric groan, and looked up to see his head back against the wall, mouth open, eyes closed. He thought how good it must feel to him, how good it must feel to be touched by a man the way he was touching Eric. He thought of Michael, and then he was hard, too.

"More," Eric said, in such a pleading tone that Terry almost laughed. To have the object of his secret fantasies begging him to act out those fantasies made him feel dizzy with power.

"Want more, do you?" he whispered. "Like this?" He gripped Eric's cock harder and drew his hand firmly over it. Not so different from wanking, he thought fuzzily. Only the angle was changed.

"Yeah..." Eric gasped. "C'mon, faster..."

Terry obliged, his brief feeling of control evaporating as abruptly as it had arrived. He didn't have control, he was as wildly aroused as Eric, as firmly in the grip of forbidden desire, as helpless in the face of pleasure. He stroked harder, again and again, until Eric's body tensed suddenly and he heard a choked cry and felt a hot splash against his hand.

Terry let his breath out in a long sigh and closed his eyes, almost as if the orgasm had been his own. Then he realised distantly, with a shiver of mingled disgust and delight, that it had. He hadn't come in his pants since he was a schoolboy, but the feeling was unmistakable.

He wiped his hand awkwardly on the brick wall, and then jerked it back to grab Eric, who was sagging against him, having apparently reached his limit of physical exhilaration for the evening. His head lolled down against Terry's shoulder, and his arms held Terry comfortably close round the waist.

"Sleep," Eric murmured, the word barely intelligible even though his lips were all but touching Terry's ear. "Tired..."

Terry smiled into Eric's hair. "I know," he said softly. "So 'm I." He was dimly aware that he was slipping toward unconsciousness, and gave his head a sharp shake to clear it.

"Here now," he said, and pushed Eric off him, propping him carefully against the wall again. "Can you stand?"

Eric's eyes drifted shut, but he nodded slowly.

Terry giggled. "Don't fall. Must get you tidied up..." His fingers were clumsy, but he managed to tuck Eric back into his clothes and do up the zip without too much bother, while Eric swayed only slightly on his feet.

As he finished, he sighed, head spinning with the effort of concentrating. "Now," he said, "must find the bus stop. Must find..."

"Richmond."

"What?"

"Richmond."

Terry blinked in confusion. "What's that?"

"Where I live. Richmon' Street."

"Oh." He searched his clouded brain for a matching reference, but failed to find one. "Well, I'm sure the bus driver'll know Richmond Street. Come on, let's go..." He put an arm round Eric's shoulders, and helped Eric drape one over his.

Eric laughed suddenly. "Rrrr," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Way you said it. Rrrrichmond." He laughed again, so hard he stumbled.

Terry grabbed him to steady him. "I did not." He giggled. "I said Richmond."

"Rrrrichmond."

"Stop it," Terry gasped. It was hard to laugh, support Eric, and walk straight at the same time. "Richmond."

"Rrrr."

Terry gave up. "Rrrr," he growled.

Shaking with foolish laughter, they made their unsteady way up the alley toward the street.

 

*****

 

He'd gone in to work on Monday morning after, hoping desperately that Eric would have no memory of the Incident (he couldn't help capitalising it in his mind), and, somehow at the same time, that he would. But when he walked in, late, to the eight o'clock writers meeting in Frost's office, Eric only glanced up, waved a noncommittal hand at him, and returned to scribbling in his notebook. Terry sat down beside Michael, who smiled and passed him a stick of gum. Everyone else had nodded briefly in greeting, and things were back to normal.

It had been five years now, and he and Eric had never spoken about it since.

He hadn't spoken about it with Mike, either. Not that there was any reason to. Why complicate a love affair by talking about past lovers?

He snorted to himself. _Lovers_? Hardly. Encounters. Conquests. Partners. No, not partners. He smiled at Michael, who sat across the table from him, writing industriously, oblivious to his musings. He only had one partner.

Michael put his pencil down. "It'll be quite short, anyway, so I don't think we need any dialogue. Just the silly romantic music, you know, and us jumping on each other the way they do. Do you mind if Graham kisses you?"

Terry cleared his throat. "No, of course not."

"Good. I'll bet _he_ won't mind, either." Mike smiled. "And Eric and I'll just improvise a bit of joyous hugging, rolling round on the ground, groping each other's -- "

"Cute arses."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing." Terry frowned briefly. "You'll have to be careful with that. You know those football shorts don't leave much to the imagination. If you put your hand just a bit wrong -- "

"I'll have myself a handful, won't I?" Michael waggled his eyebrows.

 _More_ than a handful, Terry remembered. "Just be careful not to go under the shorts, or we'll never get it past the bastards in Light Entertainment."

Mike put a solemn hand over his heart. "My friend, I would never do such a thing. I am a man of honour." He laughed and flipped his notebook shut. "And I'll warn Eric about his own hands, too."

Terry smiled a thin smile. "I'll warn him myself," he said very softly, but Michael was busy putting pencils and notebooks and tape recorders away in his bag.

Terry leaned back in his chair. "Done for today, are we?"

"I think so, yeah."

"And Helen won't be back for another hour?"

"That's what she said."

Terry gazed steadily across at him. Michael gazed steadily back.

"In that case," Terry murmured, "would you like to -- play about?"

Michael grinned.


End file.
